Monday, January 11, 2010

Baseball can't come soon enough...


Yesterday, The Patriots looked like a bunch of old ladies playing backyard bocce ball. They were subsequently humiliated, and now the season is over. It's still January. The Sox won't be starting for another two months, and watching spring training games is a little like combing the newspaper for underwear ads. I'm not a big basketball or hockey fan---I'll watch the games when it gets to the playoffs---but baseball will have started by then. What am I supposed to do? What will I watch during the long frigid nights of a New England winter?

Deep in the despair of a jilted fan, I sunk to a new low in my television viewing last night. I know, I could have read a book, sat quietly on the couch, and avoided this whole train wreck I'm about to describe, but I was feeling lackadaisical after the Pat's loss, aggravated with their slipshod performance, so utterly exasperated, I watched two hours of Jersey Shore on MTV. In fact, two hours of watching eight (then seven after Angelina, that bitch, left) of the most interesting sociological case studies of recent record didn't quite sate my appetite, so I watched another two episodes On-Demand.

This morning I woke up feeling, I assume, what I'd feel like if I slept with one of these people: guilty, dirty, stupid, and strangely satisfied.

Okay. For those of you unfamiliar with this reality-television retch of hair gel, high heels, and protein shakes, the basic premise is the producers of the show placed eight carefully chosen "guidos" and "guidettes" in a beach house on the Jersey Shore. That's it. They didn't need to do anything else. Just watching these people, whose superficiality makes Paris Hilton seem cerebral, is both awesome and terrifying. Like a there's been a terrible car accident on the side of the road, you can't look away. Every episode is the same thing, more hooking up in the hot tub, getting in bar brawls, and a tacit competition to see who will speak the new "stupidest thing you've ever heard." And each episode one-up's the previous one.

Having grown up in Rhode Island, these people are not entirely foreign to me; in fact, Pauly D., who has also made multiple appearances on the Hot Chicks With Douche Bags blog, is from Johnston, R.I. We used different titles to describe them---sparcones, hairspray whores, da-na-na's, Cranston chicks, jerk-off's, and, of course, douche bags---but they're all the same thing. And now, fifteen years later, they're back in my life, and I welcomed them with my arms wide open.

Was last night an anomaly? Or will I watch Jersey Shore again? At least until baseball season. Should I be reading a book instead? Probably. But, seriously, lighten up.

Or, as Mike "The Situation," whose entire world centers around his abs, might advise, I could hit the gym, the tanning booth, and then the laundry mat. Afterwards, I'll comb the bars and creep on some bitches.

By the way, I have some new poems in The Fox Chase Review. Currently, I'm working on a manuscript of love sonnets dedicated to Ronnie and Sammy "The Sweetheart." It's tentatively titled You're So Fucking Hot.

2 comments:

ben said...

HAHAHAHA. Oh man, I also recently watched a couple episodes of "the shore" for the first time. I haven't wacthed any since, and I still haven't decided how "real" it is. I decided just this morning to attempt a mustache of my own, hopefully I can be a porn star. Nice poems

Nate Graziano said...

I'm not sure any of those so-called "reality" shows are real; in fact, the producers manipulate storylines. But I can tell you, having grown up around these DB-types, they are TOO REAL!

Good luck with the 'stache, Ben, and the the career in porn. Come to my reading on the 27th sporting a 'stache and win a prize.